


Reunion at Sunset

by Engineer104



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Post-Time Skip, Pre-Relationship, Reunions, Somewhat anyway, probably?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:47:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26890894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Engineer104/pseuds/Engineer104
Summary: Felix waits for Sylvain to meet him a few days out from the monastery ahead of the Millennium Festival, but the last person he expects finds him first.And who's to say this reunion is so unfortunate? Assuming they can walk away from it unscathed (or at all).
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 18
Kudos: 73





	Reunion at Sunset

**Author's Note:**

> i actually started this fic months ago then decided to finish it on a whim last week. love it when that happens (as a result this is very old-school me)
> 
> anyway little bit of excitement, little bit of action, little bit of pining, and hopefully a little bit of enjoyment too!

Felix nurses a drink in the corner of the common room, watching Imperial soldiers mingling with local townspeople. Tension fills the room, and even the roaring fire in the hearth can’t chase it away. He tries not to twitch when an unfamiliar gaze slides over him, mindful that even the sort of wide-eyed tavern girl that would catch Sylvain’s attention might be an Imperial spy.

Sylvain…they split up a week out from Fraldarius after a run-in with Dukedom forces intent on divorcing their heads from their bodies. After agreeing traveling separately might, shockingly, prove safer, they arranged to meet again in the foothills near the edge of Imperial control.

Well here Felix sits, on his second night idling in a town at the mouth of the mountain pass that leads to Garreg Mach, a town occupied by the Empire, in fact! Yet there’s still no sign of Sylvain.

When they meet, Felix will be sure to give him a piece of his mind for wasting his time and his coin - not to mention that sting of worry that makes his stomach flip unpleasantly as if he hitched a ride with Ingrid and her Pegasus instead.

He strains his ears to catch every hint of conversation he can. Imperial soldiers off-duty drink their ale and loosen their lips, and Felix isn’t above eavesdropping for even the barest hint of a rumor, waiting for any mention of a captured heir to House Gautier. He even tries to listen to exchanges between barmaids for some trail of heartbreak laid by a tall red-haired man.

“Good evening, handsome.” A woman slides into the chair beside him and leans over the table so that the nicest thing Felix can say about her is that she’s not dressed for the winter weather. “Drinking all alone?”

Felix’s drink is barely touched; he wants his wits about him while surrounded by potential foes, which is to say nothing of the ale’s palatability. “Yes,” he tells her, “and I would like to keep it that way.”

The woman, unfortunately, does not take his very generous hint. “That’s too bad,” she says. She rests a hand on his arm and looks utterly unbothered when he jerks away. She holds her chin in her hands and sighs. “I was looking for some company tonight…”

Felix, his skin crawling with discomfort under his coat, is of half a mind to demand if she’s some Imperial spy. The prospect makes him tense more than her advance does, and his hand falls from his drink to the hilt of his sword. “Look,” he starts, “if you don’t leave me alone—”

“What do you mean you have no rooms available tonight?” a plaintive, all too familiar voice cuts through the din of the common room.

Felix hasn’t heard that voice - not in person - in almost five years, yet he knows it almost as well as he knows his own. His heart skips a beat in alarm, and his eyes rove the common room, searching out the source, dreading who he’ll spot…and hoping he’s right.

Annette stands across the room, a travel tote on her back and her hands resting on her hips as she stares down an innkeeper that towers over her. Her back is to Felix, but he can’t mistake her shining orange hair for anyone else’s.

“Exactly what it sounds like, miss,” the innkeeper practically sighs. “I sold my last room yesterday, and with the weather so bad in the mountains and soldiers crawling all over—”

“Surely you have room _somewhere_ ,” Annette presses. She glances over her shoulder, openly scanning the common room, and Felix catches his first glimpse of her face in five years.

His breath catches - she doesn’t look much different, somehow, but he thinks her face might’ve lost some of that childish roundness, and simply seeing her again startles him worse than a swift kick to the gut. He knows he’s staring now too, and that at any moment their eyes can meet, but he can’t look away.

Not when he reads the alarm in her gaze.

Felix moves before he can think about it, so quickly his chair topples over and crashes to the floor. If he wasn’t so intent on crossing the common room and reaching Annette, he’d be more concerned about attracting more undue attention. But he forgets that concern for the moment, until he reaches her quarreling with the innkeeper.

“Then who did you sell your last room to?” Annette demands, glaring up at the innkeeper. “I think I’d like a word with them.”

The innkeeper grimaces before looking up and pointing directly at Felix. “You’re in luck, miss,” he says. “He’s eager to have that word.”

Annette turns around. “What do you—” Her jaw drops when her wide eyes finally land on him. She scans him up and down, her mouth opening and closing as, for once, she’s rendered speechless.

His neck warms under her scrutiny, like she’s picking him apart with her eyes and checking him for…something. He raises his hand to offer her a feeble wave.

“ _Felix?_ ” Annette gasps. “What are you—”

He remembers where they are, the unfriendly eyes that wander the common room in search of anything amiss, and the enemies that lie in wait around every corner. He grabs Annette’s wrist and, ignoring the gaping innkeeper, tugs her away.

He doesn’t miss when she winces. Shame bites him, but urgency spurs him on. He drags her up the rickety stairs before halting outside the room he rented to rummage in his pocket for the key. His pulse rushes in his ears, blotting out every other sound, including Annette’s grumbles and the door creaking open before he ushers her inside. He glances up and down the narrow hall to make sure no one followed and shuts and locks the door behind him.

Annette stands in the limited floorspace somewhere between the foot of the single bed and him. Her arms are crossed tightly, and she frowns at him.

“You know, if you missed me that much, you could’ve just—”

“Did you fail to notice the Imperial soldiers everywhere?” Felix hisses.

“What?” Annette recoils from him. “Of course not! I’m not that inept, Felix, and _I_ _’m_ not the one who kidnapped someone and dragged them to their room, which is extremely inappropriate, I might add.”

He scrubs a hand over his face, remembering all over again why speaking to her - or her speaking to him - can be frustrating. “I didn’t kidnap you,” he retorts. “It’s just safer to talk in here.”

“Right, well…” Annette looks away, her face flushed and her expression the slightest bit sheepish. “I suppose that’s true enough.” She rubs her wrist where he grabbed her, and another wince escapes her.

Felix watches the motion. “Did I hurt you?” he asks, sighing. He reaches for her hand to look at it before stopping himself lest he damage it worse.

“No,” Annette says. She raises her hand, and he spots a hint of angry, shining red skin where her wrist swells. “It wasn’t you, I already…it’s nothing, I’ll be fine.”

“It’s not _fine_ ,” he insists. He catches her wrist before she can pull it away, mindful to keep his touch as light as possible. To his surprise she doesn’t resist him, not even when he pushes her sleeve up to her elbow. “Did you break it?”

“I think it’s a sprain,” she admits. “I, um, it didn’t hurt at first so I didn’t think it was a big deal until I woke up this morning and…well, you can see what it looks like now.”

Her skin feels too warm in his hand. The quiet, reasonable part of him wishes he’d taken his father’s advice just once and picked up enough white magic to heal simple injuries just to do away with this, never mind that he usually breaks bones rather than mends them.

“Uh…Felix?” Annette prompts him, and when he glances at her, she frowns. “You can let go of my hand now”—her cheeks color—”unless you don’t, um…”

When his own face warms, he drops her wrist and steps away from her. “How did you hurt yourself?” he wonders. “Don’t tell me you just tripped over your feet and fell.”

“Hey, I’m not _that_ clumsy,” she whines. She raises her hand to clutch it close to her chest, cradling it or just elevating it. “I just ran into a bit of trouble leaving home for the reunion at Garreg Mach, that’s all.”

Felix can feel his heartbeat in his temple from an oncoming headache. A grimace twists his lips, and he crosses his arms. “What kind of trouble?”

Annette’s eyes drift past him towards the door, as if she wants to be anywhere but in this small inn room with him and awaits the opportunity to escape. He doesn’t blame her, not really, but it still makes his chest ache.

She clutches her wrist close and confesses, “My uncle didn’t exactly give me permission to return to Garreg Mach.”

Something in her tone sets him on edge. He straightens, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword, and asks, “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I…ran way,” Annette explains with a smile that doesn’t light up her blue eyes, “and when my uncle found out he sent men after me.”

His heart drops into his abdomen, and if a sense of dread didn’t already overcome him in his too-long wait for Sylvain it would’ve now. “What?”

She shifts her feet but doesn’t look at Felix. “My family’s in a precarious position,” she says. “My uncle had to side with the Dukedom, so it would’ve looked bad if he let me leave for a class reunion without resistance.”

Heat washes away his dread in favor of something like anger. “Oh, it would _look bad_ ,” he growls. He grabs her elbow and raises her wrist to her face. “To me, it looks far worse that he attacked his niece to reinforce whose side he’s on!”

“Easy for you to say, Felix Hugo _Fraldarius_!” Annette hisses. “What do you know about being so small and weak Edelgard can crush you from one side and Cornelia from the other?”

Felix lets go of her arm - again - and scrubs a hand across his face. His frustration refuses to falter, but maybe—

Maybe he ought to do something about her injury before it gets worse and before they argue over which sides their families took in the war. “We should bandage your wrist,” he says. “Are you carrying any vulnerary?”

Annette’s eyes widen a heartbeat before her whole posture deflates, her own anger falling away. “I had a few vials,” she admits, “but I lost a couple when I fled and drank the last one.” She raises her wrist and sighs. “As you can see, it did not help, except maybe with the pain.”

“Then…” He rifles through his own bag that he left at the foot of the bed and tugs out a roll of bandages - he knows _some_ basic field medicine; he’s not enough of a fool not to - and another vial of vulnerary. They wouldn’t be enough without actual healing magic, but they would suffice either until they - because he sees no reason not to travel with Annette from here - reunite with Sylvain (whose own paltry healing skills outweigh Felix’s nonexistent ones) or reach Garreg Mach where—

“Is Mercedes traveling for the reunion too?” Felix wonders. He shrugs out of his coat and drapes it over the only chair in the room before rolling his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. He taps Annette’s shoulder and mumbles, “Sit down.”

She frowns at him, confusion in her gaze, before her eyes catch on the roll of bandages in his hand. She clutches her wrist and protests, “Oh, you don’t have to—we’re only a few days out from Garreg Mach, right? And Mercie did tell me she’ll be there, so it’ll be—”

He rests his hand on her shoulder, and when her eyes flit up to his face he insists, “Sit. Down.”

Annette’s lower lip juts out, and for a heartbeat he worries she’ll refuse - _why_? - but then she sits heavily on the foot of the bed and doesn’t glance at him when she extends her wrist towards him “Fine,” she says. “It’s really not that—ow! Felix!”

He bites back an apology - he doesn’t need to apologize for insisting she take care of her wounds - when he grabs her swollen wrist. She winces, and he tries to keep his touch gentle but doubts he manages judging by how she sucks in a breath through her teeth.

“Do you want the vulnerary now or after?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I think I’ll take it now, actually,” Annette says.

Felix keeps a smirk off his face - there’s nothing even vaguely amusing about her pain - but as he hands her the vial he can’t help teasing, “Not worth singing about?”

“It’s been _five years_ ,” she whines. “Why can’t you just forget?”

“Because it’s permanently etched—”

“—in your memory, I _know_ ,” Annette groans. She stares at the vial in her hands as if it personally offended her. “How am I supposed to open this? I need both hands.”

“Use your teeth,” he suggests, already using his own to unroll the linen so he doesn’t have to let go of her wrist.

Annette’s fingers twitch. “That’s so…so improper,” she tells him, as if he cares.

Felix rolls his eyes before snatching the vial from her, taking the cork between his teeth, and tugging. He spits out the cork so it thunks against the opposite wall and returns the vial to her. “Anymore complaints?”

Her fingers brush his, soft and warm, when she takes it. “Not about this, no,” she says.

“Then about what?” He presses the end of the linen strip against the inside of her wrist and focuses on that task rather than on the feverish heat her swollen flesh emanates. “Surely not my memory?”

“Maybe if we were still in school,” Annette says under her breath, and he wonders if her mind flashes back to his pitiful attempts at grasping complex theories of Reason, to late nights spent in the library until she started to nod off into her notes, to him nudging her shoulder and threatening to carry her out (where anyone could see and she would be so _mortified_ ) if she didn’t call it for the evening.

His face warms at the memory, but he shoves it away. There’s no use in being so sentimental now.

“This vulnerary tastes all right,” Annette says then. He glances up to see her squinting at the emptied vial. “What’s so special about it?”

Felix shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe the apothecaries in Fraldarius are better than those in Dominic?”

“Well, as long as it works, it doesn’t matter.” The vial lands with a _clink_ on the chair when she tosses it aside.

She falls silent as he wraps the bandaging around her wrist and tries not to dwell on her wincing or her labored breathing. His chest tugs uncomfortably, and he wonders if maybe he missed her more than he realized. “It has to be tight,” he tells her.

“I know,” she grumbles. “I’d complain if it didn’t.”

“Complain anyway,” he says, because he wants to hear the sound of her voice, because he missed it despite his best efforts not to.

“If you’re sure…” Annette says, sounding doubtful, but when he nods she smiles very slightly and says, “Well, to start, you didn’t write nearly enough in the last five years.”

His grip on her wrist tightens, but he lets go with a mumbled apology when she smacks his shoulder. “I’ve been…busy,” he says, though now he wonders, why would he ever be too busy for her?

(Felix doesn’t tell her how long it took to weigh each word he put in any of his letters to her.)

“Right, of course, how could I forget,” Annette says. “You were always fighting in one battle or skirmish or another, so maybe it _would_ _’ve_ killed you to write a little more just to tell me you were all right.”

Her words sting, but more than that he hears…some unspoken sentiment behind them. He can’t look at her, fearing her reproach, and instead mutters, “You needn’t have worried. Nothing can kill me so easily.”

“You say that,” she says in a lower voice that sends a shiver up his spine, “but I’m not really sure you understand how…well, you’re a villain for making me worry, that’s all.”

“That’s all?” he echoes, hollowly. Satisfied with his job on her wrist (without white magic at hand) Felix tears at the linen with his teeth; he tucks the end underneath the bandage but…doesn’t let go of her wrist.

It’s so small and delicate even bulked with swelling and the bandaging. If he wraps his fingers around it, they would more than span the circumference.

Felix has seen Annette tear foes to shreds with the force of her spells, but with her injured wrist in his hand she feels almost…fragile.

The tip of his thumb brushes against her arm just under where she pushed up her sleeve. As if possessed he strokes her skin, and when she sucks in a breath he raises his face.

Pink tints her cheeks, and her eyes flit between his own and just past him, as if she can’t decide where to look. His own ears warm, and for once he wishes he untied his hair so he could hide them.

He both wants to look at her and look away from her, wants to lean closer and run far away. His chest warms the same instant it tightens when her fingers grasp his own bare wrist.

Annette’s breath skitters over his cheek, though Felix holds his own, frozen and…uncertain. Because he can never meet her eyes, not really, his gaze slips down to—

“Felix?” she whispers, and somehow her voice speaking his name only intensifies whatever spell she’s wrapped him in.

Her eyes slip shut when he brushes a few loose strands of hair away from her face. He lets his fingertips linger as he leans closer and—

A harsh, staccato knock sounds against the door, and the spell breaks.

Felix catches himself before he slips backwards off the bed, and Annette’s hand grasps his shirt to keep him upright in a bizarre reversal for them. But with someone at the door, he doesn’t have the chance to remark on it.

Annette, her face still flushed, shoots him an alarmed glance he can’t help mirroring. “Y-you weren’t expecting anyone, were you?” she mutters, low enough whoever waits on the other side shouldn’t hear.

He stands - her hand falls away from his shirt - and shakes his head. “Just Sylvain,” he admits, “but…” Well, maybe it _is_ Sylvain at last; he’s not convinced the innkeeper maintains any sort of confidentiality for his patrons, not that he gave anyone downstairs his true name.

But his heart still hammers against his ribs, only skipping a beat when a second knock comes.

“Who is it?” he calls. He loosens his sword in its scabbard, his whole body at attention.

“Housekeeping,” a feminine voice replies brightly. “I’m here to clean your room.”

“That’s not necessary tonight,” Felix tells her at the same time he grabs his coat and pulls it on. He freezes when hands land on his arms, only to look down and find Annette helping him roll his shirtsleeves back down. His face heats but he asks, “What are you—”

“Moving this faster,” she says, though her fingers seem to linger longer than necessary.

“Are you sure, sir?” the woman on the other side wonders. “It’s no bother for a guest at the inn.”

“It’s a bother to me,” he retorts as Annette finds the Aegis Shield where it leans against the wall. “I’d rather turn in soon.” He takes it from her and straps it to his left arm, ready.

“So early?” The self-styled housekeeper clicks her tongue as if she addresses a mischievous child. “It’s not even sunset.”

“H-he has company!” Annette pipes up then. Before he can chide her for not alerting anyone to _her_ presence, her arms fly around his neck and she leans into him so heavily his free hand rests on her waist on reflex. “Come back tomorrow, we’re quite busy tonight!”

His whole body warms when she mumbles into his collar, “S-sorry, I just have a bad feeling about—”

“Oh, so you found someone to drink with after all,” the woman outside the door says, and the familiar cadence of her voice sends an entirely unpleasant shiver down Felix’s spine. He shoves Annette behind him to spin around facing the door at the same instant the woman continues, “I’m almost jealous you refused me, Felix.”

He stiffens and snaps, “How do you know my name?”

Then he knows why she sounds familiar.

“Y-you’re the woman from the common room,” he says.

“ _Who_?” Annette demands from behind him.

“You caught me,” the woman says with a far too theatrical sigh. “It would’ve been easier if you just let me slip something into your drink earlier. Now, milord Fraldarius, either you open this door and you and your companion let me arrest you and turn you over to the Imperial garrison quietly, or I’ll break it down and shoot you through with enough poisoned needles to bring down a wyvern. It’s up to you.”

“Escape through the window?” Annette says then. Her fingers dig into his sword arm, half-tugging him backwards towards it.

“We’re on the second floor,” he hisses. “Unless you can use a spell to cushion the fall, we’ll get worse than a sprained wrist—”

“And I should mention,” the woman cuts him off, “that I’ve already seen to cutting off any possible escape. Empire soldiers surround this inn and won’t be letting you slip through.”

“Oh,” Felix says, at last drawing his sword. “Oh, good. Then I’m opening the door.”

“What?” Annette’s tone is almost flat. “Felix—”

“Stay close to me,” he warns her in a low voice, and after making sure she listens (for once) he strides towards the door and wrenches it open.

The woman from the common room stands behind it, a sword of her own held across her body, but any trace of a smile on her face falls away. “Is this your idea of coming quietly?”

“No,” he says.

He swings the same instant a glow surrounds him, and before the woman - the spy - can raise her sword to block the blow a gale bursts from Annette and blasts her against the opposite wall. She strikes it with a gasp, but when her feet touch the ground her lips twist into a snarl and she flings something from her left hand.

“ _Shit,_ ” Felix swears as he raises his Shield. Most of the needles clatter harmlessly against its surface, but a hiss escapes him when one slips past his guard and into his thigh.

From down the hall echo the shouts of commands, and maybe Felix reconsiders.

Before the spy can recover from Annette stunning her, Felix sheathes his sword, slams the door shut, spins around, and grabs her wrist. “Ow, Felix, that’s my—”

Usually he might spare an apology, but with an enemy behind them and between their obvious escape, there are more pressing matters at hand. “Window it is,” he says. “Cushion our fall.”

“W-what?” Annette stutters, but before she can confirm that she can even do that, he drops her wrist to curl his fingers into a fist and prays to some entity that his Crest will serve its use.

Something answers his prayer. His Crest flares the instant his fist connects with the glass, and it cracks in a sequence of spirals. A few more blows and glass bursts outward in a scattering of shards. Each impact shudders up his arm, but there’s no time to dwell on that when the spy yells from the gaping doorway, “Don’t you—”

Felix drags Annette onto the windowsill with him, wraps his shield arm around her, and, without bothering to look down, jumps.

She doesn’t scream, but a gasp escapes her even as she weaves a spell. His heart jumps into his throat and his stomach lurches, but before they can collide with the ground, a burst of wind from below blows them upright.

The impact, though softened, still knocks the air from Felix’s lungs, and his shoulder wrenches painfully when it connects with the rough ground.

They land in a heap and a tangled mess of limbs, Annette on top trapped under his Shield. He clutches at his head and groans, but when her hands, one scratchy with bandages, find his face he freezes and stares up at her.

“That was stupid,” she chides him.

“So is lying here when there are still soldiers after us,” he says, though he makes no move. Her weight is warm, almost comfortable on him.

“You could’ve gotten injured worse than I am if I _couldn_ _’t_ cushion the fall,” Annette continues.

He frowns up at her - her touch on his face makes it harder to think - and says, “Well, there’s no way you couldn’t if I remember correctly.” A sliver of red on her cheek catches his eye, and he reaches up to wipe the blood away with his thumb. “What happened there?”

“Must’ve been glass,” she says. Her cheeks color, and distantly Felix wonders if blushing is really such a good idea while she’s bleeding from a scratch.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He starts to sit up, glancing over his shoulder before looking back at her; they need to leave before more soldiers find them, yet he’s reluctant to shove her away. “That was supposed to help, not—”

Annette’s lips press against his, a brief, fleeting pressure that makes his eyes widen and his heart skip a beat even as she pulls away and climbs to her feet. She offers him a hand, and though her face is still pink she practically glares at him as if daring him to comment. “We should escape now, right?”

“R-right,” he says hollowly. He takes her hand and lets her tug him to his feet, but once they stand he holds fast. His heart races as he looks at her and her raised face and bright eyes and—

A fluke, he decides, his chest twinging. She missed him or was grateful (for some reason) or—or something. Her featherlight kiss can’t mean anything he might want it to.

Not that it matters with their lives still balancing on the edge of a blade.

Felix tugs Annette through the inn’s yard. A sharp pain travels up his leg, but he bites back a hiss when they come across a handful of Imperial soldiers on the lookout.

They creep around the inn’s wall towards the main entrance, hiding behind barrels and bales of hay. Felix hopes against hope Annette won’t trip over anything and draw attention to them even as they both press their backs against the wall and slide along it.

His spine fills with tension when the spy herself bursts from the inn entrance and approaches a soldier on patrol. Fury twists her face, and she knocks on his helmet and snaps, “Is your helmet supposed to cover your eyes, or are you and your men just daft?”

The soldier stiffens and says, “We haven’t seen—”

“They can’t have gone far,” the spy says. She scans the vicinity, and he feels the instant Annette stiffens as her gaze passes over their hiding place. “Have you blocked all the exits?”

“Yes, I have three men stationed at each,” the soldier explains.

“Station at least five!” the spy says. “And don’t underestimate them. They were stupid enough to jump out of a window to escape me so they may be injured, but I’d bet the mage is still worth three of your men by herself.”

The soldier salutes and says, “Yes, ma’am.” Then he turns to a handful of other soldiers and starts barking orders.

Annette’s hand squeezes around his fingers, and when he glances at her her face has drained of color. “We need to be quick,” she guesses.

“We’ll fight our way through if we have to,” he agrees, returning the pressure.

While the commander’s back is turned, they dart behind him. The inn’s entry gates are in sight, several soldiers at attention with hands on weapons in front of it. They’ll have to charge through if they want to escape, but if they approach silently enough they can make it an ambush and take the advan—

Something _thunks_ just behind him. Annette hisses, “Ow—oh no!”

He spins towards her and catches her around the waist before she falls over the barrel that caught her. His heart pounds in his throat, but it’s too late:

The commander finds them, lance in hand and mouth open before he shouts, “Men, to me!”

Felix draws his sword and maneuvers himself between the incoming soldiers and Annette. “Run,” he tells her. “I’ll be behind you.”

“But—”

“Blast them if you can,” he cuts her off as they approach and he prepares his Shield, “but you _need_ to run.”

“Assuming I don’t trip again,” Annette grumbles, frustration written all over her face, but she lifts the hem of her dress and runs for the gates.

Felix follows on her heels, but the commander himself rushes him, lance up…only for it to collide with his Shield when he raises it. He’s a low-level commander, he guesses based on his light armor and simple crimson uniform even if the indelicacy behind his blow didn’t tip him off.

Felix makes mincemeat of such feeble opponents.

He strikes under his arm before he can raise the lance to retaliate, the tip of his sword slicing through flesh in a gap in his armor. He reels back with a shout, and if Felix didn’t need to cover Annette’s escape more than he needs to secure victory, it would’ve been the opening he needs to finish the fight.

Several soldiers block their path as he catches up to Annette. They line up in the entryway, small round shields raised and spears poised for throwing or jabbing, and before them waits the spy.

She stands almost calmly with her hands clasped behind her back, but no trace of pleasantness lingers on her face. Her gaze flits over Felix, and she observes, “You’re limping. Did I stick you with a needle after all?”

His lips twist into a scowl, but if she’s focused on him she’ll pay less attention to Annette. “I can walk steady enough to kill you,” he tells her.

The spy laughs without humor and draws her own blade. “How cute.” She points it past him…towards Annette. “You, mage, my mandate is to apprehend Felix of House Fraldarius and Sylvain of House Gautier, and as far as I can tell you are neither of them so I have no quarrel with you. If you leave him to us, I will forgive your stunt upstairs and my men will not pursue you.”

Felix’s chest tightens, and his gaze snaps to Annette where she hovers beside him, her own arms outstretched in preparation to unleash a spell, the cut on her face a livid red streak. She should take that offer, he thinks. She wants to meet their old classmates more desperately than he does, and maybe—

“No, thank you,” Annette says to the spy, her eyes narrowed in a glower on her, and before either Felix or the spy can protest a glyph bursts into life and a raging, roaring tempest funnels through it.

This time the spy dodges, but not without the wind catching her left arm so viciously it tears at her sleeve and leaves bleeding cuts on her skin. And her men, just behind her and ill-equipped to handle a spell of such power, scramble to keep their balance against the gale.

Felix wastes no time watching them. He strikes out against the spy, but her sword rises up to meet his. He slashes it away before blocking another speedy strike with his Shield, but he stands his ground.

Against just her, he knows he’d fare best. He nearly matches her speed but outstrips her in strength, even with the nasty jabs she tries to shove under his guard. But the needle she left in his thigh slows him down, and he’s all too aware of Annette and how easily she can be overwhelmed or surrounded the instant her strength diminishes from casting too many spells.

Their swords lock, and Felix raises his Shield to smack the spy away only for her lips to quirk into a smirk and her other hand to shoot up and jab him in the eyes. He recoils with a hiss, stepping away and ducking halfway on reflex the next slash of her blade. It whistles over his head, and his heart only pounds faster as he blinks tears out of his eyes.

Felix lashes up out of frustration. His blade catches the spy’s arm, and now it’s her turn to gasp in pain and jump back.

He smirks and straightens…only for his knee to buckle.

“Aha, the poison takes effect.” The spy pays her bleeding arm no mind as she rounds on him. She points her blade at him, and he’s all too pleased when he finds it still clean. “My orders are to take you alive, though I’m allowed to kill you if you resist. Are you done resisting?”

“No,” Felix grits out. He dives.

The spy’s eyes widen when he tackles her, but she recovers quicker than he expected. Her blade flies at him, sharp edge aiming for his head. He shoves her away, in a rush to evade again, only to catch the blade in his upper arm right over his Shield.

Felix jerks away, fresh pain lancing up his arm and into his shoulder, but he bites it back, instead absorbing it and transforming it out of desperation for his own survival and Annette’s.

Behind him she shouts, “Felix! No, hey—” The air between them hums with energy as she blasts an incoming soldier with Wind.

His eyes latch onto his foe, and while the spy readies herself for what he knows will be a blow to finish him, Felix strikes first.

She fights with no shield and leaves herself unguarded, seeking refuge in her speed over all else. And he’s more than pleased to take advantage of that.

He slashes up and forward, and she falters as his blade enters her abdomen and emerges from her back. “B—fu—no!” When her sword still rises to strike, her wound diminishes her strength so much he barely puts any force behind blocking her.

Felix shoves her off his sword before she dies - not that she’ll die quickly with a wound to the gut, not that he’ll be waiting around for it. He digs the tip in the ground and leans against it as he stands, wincing when his leg tries to refuse bearing his weight.

“Annette,” he says, “we need to—we need to go now!”

The spy’s men don’t pose the same threat, but his whole body aches - from the poison, he doesn’t doubt, but he shoves any flicker of fear away - and with a bleeding wound in his arm and his Shield growing too heavy to bear he’ll scarcely be able to protect himself, much less Annette, against a hoard.

His knees buckle under his weight, but before he falls Annette’s there to catch him.

Her arm wraps around his back, and she takes his other around her shoulders. “How badly are you hurt?” she demands.

Felix‘s poisoned leg won’t take his weight, yet he says, “Let’s just get out of here.”

“Felix—”

“Not the time,” he insists, and takes one step towards the gates.

Somehow they slip away from the inn’s premises without attracting anymore unwanted attention. Annette drapes his cape over his Shield to hide it, and he reluctantly sheathes his bloodied sword. They hobble away, with him leaning heavily against her, and he tries not to let his breathing grow too labored.

Impossible with the way he all but drags his bad leg behind him.

The busyness of the town dwindles so close to the curfew the Empire imposed, and the longer it takes them to escape, the more easily enemy troops will discover them. And if anyone peeks too closely at Annette’s face or at his left side, no one can mistake them for anything but desperate and injured.

“Almost there,” Annette assures him as they drift past a farmer quarreling with a soldier that looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. She angles her face away from them and says, “I-if they look over here, kiss me.”

Felix’s heart drops. “W-what? Why?” Damn, and now his mind flits back to when they fell to the courtyard, and her lips pressed fleetingly against his…

“Because then we can pretend to be a couple late getting home,” she retorts. Her lips twist into a frown as she adds, “And you don’t have to sound like you hate it so much.”

“I don’t—I didn’t—that’s not what—” he cuts himself off with a hiss, frustrated all over again. At least he can write off his quickening pulse as a result of a hard-fought battle and their mad dash, even if her suggestion races around his mind.

“Wait, what are you two doing out so late?” the soldier’s voice rings out behind them.

Annette stiffens.

Felix acts without thinking.

He curves his arm to cradle her head and bring her closer, leans down, and kisses her.

It’s awful, it’s terrible, he uses too much force and their teeth click and he nearly falls into her with the shift in his lackluster balance. And her warm breath stutters over his cheek, and her hand lets go of his wrist to cup his jaw, and her lips are soft, and his pulse is loud in his ears.

If they didn’t have an audience, if they weren’t in the middle of escaping, if he wasn’t losing all feeling except _fire_ in his leg and if his left arm wasn’t bleeding he might even have enjoyed it.

Annette pulls away first, and even in the dimness of the streetlights a flush colors her cheeks. But despite her wide eyes and the obvious alarm on her face she has a smile ready when the soldier approaches them.

“W-we’re just on our way home!” she assures him, avoiding glancing at him to hide the cut on her cheek. “We visited the inn for a drink, guess we had a little too much!” She laughs, a sound high and false and less musical than her true mirth.

Felix doesn’t have to work hard to feign inebriation, but he curses the Imperial spy and wishes her the worst in death for that too.

“I…see,” says the soldier, stopping abreast of them. “Hurry home then. There are two fugitives tied to Faerghus’ resistance about, and they’re very dangerous.”

He muffles a snort against Annette’s shoulder; what’s so dangerous about him now in this pathetic state?

Still, he resists an overwhelming urge to reach for the hilt of his sword, though her body seems to hum with an unmistakable magical energy as if she wants nothing more than to blast the soldier where he stands.

Felix can’t fault her for that, but then they’d just draw more attention on themselves. He isn’t sure how to tell her as much under the gaze of a suspicious Imperial soldier, so he tightens his arm around her and tries to hobble away and drag her with him.

Annette relaxes very slightly. “Thank you for the warning,” she tells the soldier. “Now I’ll be on my way so I can take care of my idiot husband.”

He splutters, “Hus— _idiot_?”

She laughs, and this one rings more sincerely - and warmer - than the last. “I was wondering why you were being so quiet, darling!”

Felix has the distinct impression she’s enjoying this for some bizarre reason. Heat crawls up his neck, and he rolls his eyes and mutters, “Let’s _go_.”

Annette _waves_ at the soldier, but at last she moves again.

Every step between the soldier’s line of sight and the edge of town is torture. While blood still drips onto his hidden Shield and with the agony lancing up his leg, he struggles to breathe evenly. Annette’s breathing is also worryingly labored, and he wonders, “Are you—are you injured? Is your cheek—”

“I’m fine,” she says. “Worry about yourself, Felix.”

He doesn’t bother replying. He doubts any deflection he can muster will convince her.

But her voice washes over him almost pleasantly, makes it harder for him to even keep his eyes open. He’s warm too, warmer than he was when Annette claimed him as her damn husband, and he knows he can’t keep this up much further from town, much less until they reach Garreg Mach.

 _And_ they left all their supplies behind in the room he wasted coin on renting.

Felix doesn’t know what ensures their survival more: stopping for the night, or trekking as far away from a strong Empire presence as possible.

“A-Annette,” he says while knives skewer his leg, “we might have to—”

“Rest here,” Annette decides then, her voice oddly curt. She guides them off the road, just deep enough she can help settle him against a boulder.

Felix wants to protest them stopping so soon, but a velvety navy darkness already engulfs them and works to hide them from potential pursuit. He stretches his leg out in front of him, fighting to keep a wince from his face, and doesn’t resist when Annette reaches for his Shield and tugs it from his arm.

Her hand brushes his forehead, and he can’t help leaning into her touch.

“I-I think you’re feverish, Felix,” Annette says. “I know a little white magic, though not nearly enough to get any toxins out of your system, so—”

“Shh,” he hisses then as the sound of horses’ hooves reach them.

At least four of them, he guesses, and sure enough the light of a torch pierces through the thin line of trees between them and the road.

Annette’s breath hitches, but she acts quickly. She throws his cape back over his white Shield and huddles close to him, making herself as small as possible.

Felix holds his breath and wraps an arm around her, drawing her in and turning his own face away. He counts his thundering heartbeats, so loud he dreads the men on horseback will hear, but not loud enough to drown out their voices.

“…this far on her own?” one man asks.

“She’s crafty enough,” another replies as they drift closer.

“What if we just let her go?” a third wonders. “She wants to help the Kingdom, so why don’t we return to Dominic and tell the baron we—”

“We have our orders,” the second man says at the same time Felix sucks in a breath, because there’s no doubt these are the men Annette’s uncle sent chasing after her. “We’re not returning to Dominic without Miss Annette.”

She gasps, a hiss of breath so close to his ear he shivers. “Th-that’s Artur,” she whispers. “He’s a better healer than me, he can help.” And before he can react, she escapes his grasp and jogs away.

“A-Annette!” he hisses after her. His back presses against the boulder as he struggles to stand, his head spinning with the effort, and dread tight in his abdomen when she ignores him.

“Artur!” Annette calls, louder. The light darkens her into a silhouette, and the men on horseback approach her.

“Miss Annette!” one of the men exclaims. “What are you—what happened to your face?”

An absurd heat swarms Felix at the words. These men injured Annette, and they have the audacity to ask after her like this? He draws his sword and limps towards the confrontation, his pace frustratingly slow, and his leg a painful dead weight.

“Never mind that,” Annette says. “I need—I have a friend who’s badly injured, he needs your help, and I—I have no wish to fight my uncle’s men anymore.”

Foolish. How can she be so _foolish_?

“An injured friend?”

“Yes,” she says with a note of impatience. “He’s bleeding from his arm, and he can barely walk since one of his legs was stuck with something poisonous. So, if you heal him I’ll”—she inhales sharply, her shoulders slumping—”I’ll return to Dominic with you.”

“Annette!” Felix snaps from behind her. “Don’t you _dare_!”

She spins around at the sound of his voice, her eyes wide. “Felix, what are you doing on your feet?” She approaches him, and is right there to catch him when his legs give up on him.

He falls against her, his whole body trembling and his sword slipping from his grasp. He grits his teeth, half out of pain and half out of frustration at his own ineptitude, but manages to growl, “Don’t go back with them.”

Her arms wrap around him, her stance steady and strong where his falters. “You need _healing_ ,” Annette retorts, “and if that’s the way you’ll get it then—”

“Then I’ll refuse any,” he says. A strange sort of fear grips him, and a disbelief that she would give up something she so obviously wants - a return to Garreg Mach, something she wants more than he does - for him.

And what happens after that, when she leaves him to make his way to the reunion without her after meeting her again? He doesn’t like that uncertainty for all his life in the last five years - _longer_ \- has been nothing but uncertain.

Felix doesn’t really know what awaits them at the monastery, but he knows he doesn’t want to face it without Annette.

“Don’t be stupid,” she insists even as her grip on him tightens.

“I still don’t know what the hell swamp beasties are,” he tells her almost frantically. His good hand, the one better suited for a sword, rests on her back, pressing her closer.

A shiver wracks her, and her breath wisps against his neck as she grumbles, “Just let that go already, you villain.”

“I can’t let it go,” he says, though what he means is he won’t let her go either.

He feels more than hears Annette sniff, and her voice is muffled in his shoulder when she says, “Please, Felix, just let them heal you.”

“I’ll heal him,” the Dominic soldier pipes in unhelpfully. “It’s a fair bargain, Miss Annette.”

Annette pulls away from him, though not enough to let him fall for all the desperation threatening to drag him down. It’s an almost alien feeling that hasn’t touched him since the early days of the war, when he couldn’t bring himself to believe D—the boar had perished, but he can’t push it away.

“Annette,” he presses, “don’t—”

An unholy screech rends the night sky. The Dominic soldiers stiffen, their horses shifting nervously while each one reaches for his weapon. Felix tenses and Annette’s hold on him tightens.

Then a gale almost as powerful as anything she summons stirs the branches of the trees, and a wyvern descends from the darkness.

One horse rears in alarm. Its rider yelps but falls from its back, and the poor, frightened beast thunders away. The rest fare better, keeping their saddles and wielding lances as Artur commands them to charge the wyvern.

But it lashes out at them while its own rider swings an unmistakable and gleaming lance at a foe that draws too closely to the saddle.

Even alone the wyvern knight and his snarling mount make quick work of the Dominic soldiers. They retreat with their injuries, leaving Felix clinging - not that he would ever admit to it - to Annette while she struggles to hold him upright.

Then the wyvern looms, its shadow stretching monstrous and huge in the flickering torchlight, its awful, carrion breath washing over him.

Felix wrinkles his nose and snaps, “Rein in your beast, Sylvain!”

“S-Sylvain?” Annette mutters.

“That’s how wyverns kiss,” the rider retorts in lieu of a proper greeting, “and despite my best efforts my lovely lady here was your first, wasn’t she?”

His face would flush hotter if he wasn’t already feverish, especially with the memory of Annette’s lips against his - twice over - sharpening in his mind. “Y-you don’t know—you’re full of nonsense,” he says. “And what the hell took you so long?”

“Please tell me you at least carry an antitoxin, Sylvain,” Annette says with the air of impatience anyone with any sense carries around Sylvain.

“I can do you one better,” he assures her as he slides down from the saddle, Lance of Ruin slung across his back. He rifles through a saddlebag, glass clinking, before approaching them with a couple of vials. “One antitoxin, one concoction, and”—he raises his hands, and Felix does not trust how the shadows distort the smirk curving his lips—”these healing hands.”

“You can heal?” Annette demands. “Since when?”

“Since I decided to pick up a few new skills,” Sylvain tells her. “Glad to hear they’re impressive.”

“I did not—you know what, never mind!” she says. She shifts her grip on Felix so she can hold a hand out to Sylvain. “Give me those!”

“So impatient,” he says even as his eyes, sharp and discerning in a way he rarely shows, land on Felix. “You did not look nearly this bad last time I saw you, Felix.”

He rolls his eyes, but even that slight motion makes his stomach turn. “Can’t imagine why,” he mumbles.

Out of the corner of his eye he watches Annette fumble with the vials Sylvain hands her before she opens one with her teeth and spits the cork aside. “What happened to that being improper?” he wonders.

Her cheeks color slightly, apparent even in just the light of the torch her uncle’s retreating soldiers dropped, as she holds the vial up to his mouth. “Given the circumstances I’ve decided to make an exception,” she says.

Felix can’t help a slight smile tugging at his lips. He lets Annette tip first the antitoxin then the concoction into his mouth, barely grimacing at the cloying taste. “You need one too,” he notes, and he wipes at the blood that streaks her cheek with his sleeve.

Her lips twitch into a smile, though she says, “It’s really not that bad. Sylvain can probably heal it.”

“I would happily offer my services,” Sylvain cuts in, “but I have a feeling Felix wouldn’t like me putting my hands on you.”

Annette scowls and throws a glare at him more deadly than the needle in his thigh. “I-it’s just a simple healing spell!” she says.

Felix shoves away that part of him that agrees with Sylvain, for once. “You did say you can heal,” he reminds him. “At least show that you’re not all talk.”

“Happily,” he says. “Just say the word, Annette.”

“I’ll take care of Felix first,” she tells him.

“But—”

Her lips on his cheek quiet him, as does an old flutter in his chest. “Thank you for worrying about me, Felix,” she mutters, low enough he understands she means it for his ears alone. She doesn’t quite look at him, and he wonders if her mind drifts to that quick, stolen instant in the courtyard like his does.

She doesn’t give him the chance to muster his courage and ask before she helps him settle on Sylvain’s sole bedroll.

“Sorry,” Sylvain offers, “but I wasn’t exactly expecting any guests so you might have to share!”

Felix spares a glower at him over Annette’s shoulder, but he only winks.

She giggles to his surprise. “I’ll be fine without one for one night,” she says, “but thank you, Sylvain.” Her hands still hover over Felix’s injured arm, which no longer bleeds after the simple healing spell she cast over it. The warmth of her hands linger against his skin, as he’d shed his coat to give her better access to the wound.

“I barely did anything,” Sylvain says with a careless shrug as he leans back against the same boulder Felix and Annette sheltered against a mere hour ago. “My lady here did all the work, though I admit her healing isn’t as great as mine.”

His wyvern snorts in its sleep, as if it heard and agreed (or disagreed, for all Felix knew).

He snorts too, unimpressed with Sylvain’s logic, but he’s too tired to bother arguing his point. His weakness lingers despite the concoction, and a mind-numbing exhaustion blankets him. But in company he would trust with his life he doesn’t mind so much.

(And he wants his strength back before Sylvain reads too much in the blow he owes him for making him worry.)

He doesn’t mind the way Annette almost idly combs his sweaty hair away from his face either, nor how her thumb skirts over his knuckles before he finds it in himself to weave their fingers together. She hums, soft and sweet, while his eyes flutter shut, and mumbles an almost shy thank you for refusing to let her leave. And if her lips brush against his forehead before sleep takes him it’s just one more thing she’s done seared into his memory.

**Author's Note:**

> _crosses "write a Reunion fic" off the bucket list_
> 
> thank you for reading!


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